Sherlock held the button down until he was sure it was safe, then whispered into his handset: "Now."
x
John was still wincing from the awful, piercing sound that had just filled his ears when Sherlock's voice crackled through his earpiece: "Now." He blinked away the pain and tried to remember some of the anger he'd felt the night before, the fury that had consumed him suddenly and without merit when Sherlock accidently said his trigger word. He let some of it wash over him (it felt like psyching himself up before a fight…and in a way, that's exactly what he was doing) before he opened his eyes and looked across the table at Seb.
Seb smiled, slow and dangerous, but his eyes were narrowed. "How ya feelin', Johnny-boy?"
Something about this felt wrong; the hairs on the back of his neck stood up. This was an old, familiar feeling. In John's mind, he was walking with three other men, soldiers, the four of them aware of every single breath they took, the village around them silent enough that they could hear a pin drop. Not good. John pushed those thoughts away and instead considered Seb's question. That, too, was familiar, and he answered it the same way he'd answered his comrades in the desert right before their unit moved out: "Fucking bored and ready for some action."
"In the words of our Yankee brothers," Seb said softly, that eerie smile stile lingering on his face, "hoo-rah."
The din of the pub seemed to dim around them, and John felt that time must have been slowing down. Seb slid out of the booth and walked over to John's side of the table, kneeling until their eyes were level, their faces only inches apart. "Where is Sherlock Holmes?" he whispered, suddenly deadly serious.
"At my flat," John answered at once. It was a lie, but it was the lie that he and Sherlock had agreed upon and he felt comfortable, almost at ease, with the way it sounded.
Seb stood and straightened his shirt absently (thankfully not noticing the sudden horror that passed over John's expression as he realized he could smell Moriarty on it, the rot of his corpse and the dust of the abandoned office) before turning back to John with renewed playfulness. "Good," he said, nodding. "Let's go and get him. It's his turn, after all, and the man can't exactly play if he's not even present." He put out his hand to John and grinned, "Rules are rules. I should know; I made them."
John took Seb's hand despite the revulsion that was running through him like nausea and let Seb hold him around the shoulders all the way outside. He wished fervently that Sherlock would say something, anything, through the earpiece. Please, Sherlock, he thought anxiously, don't let him do this. I don't want you to die again. They walked for what felt like ages, Seb silent, John lost in his own thoughts.
A sharp pin-prick in his neck brought John crashing back to the present. Seb was tossing a hypodermic needle over his shoulder with a sigh, his body language suggesting he was disappointed. "Sherlock is supposed to be a genius," Seb said, almost sadly. "A genius!" He sighed again and slung his arm around John as the smaller man began to droop, his head swimming.
As John slipped into a deep, bottomless sleep, Seb plucked the receiver from John's ear and held it between his thumb and forefinger, examining it thoughtfully. Then he brought it to his mouth and spoke, softly: "Not very clever, using my old tricks. Don't forget who this puppet belongs to. Now, I think you know where to meet me, hmm? But in case you don't, here's a hint: listen to the traffic. See you soon, Sherlock Holmes. I hope you bring me a little more of a challenge in the next round." He flicked the earpiece down into the gutter and tucked John up against him, whistling jauntily as he pulled John's slacken body alongside him.
x
Sherlock hadn't expected their little ruse to last long (not that he told John as much; better to keep the man in the dark and safe than to drag him out into the light, exposed) but he had rather hoped Sebastian would play along for longer than that. Still, he'd gotten the information he needed. He listened to the traffic, as Moran said and as he'd planned to do from the start…but now he realised that Moran was right: he knew exactly where he needed to be, even without the sounds of London bustling in tinny waves from his handset. There was nowhere else this- the end- could have taken place.
Out on the street, Sherlock hailed a cab and slid in, his fingers already dancing across his mobile. "St. Bart's," he told the cabbie, not looking up, and only when they were on their way did he dare spare a glance out the window and into the night.
